Lightly Row
by The Tsundere Fangirl
Summary: Alfred, a young police officer, is assigned to work on a puzzling case involving a serial killer who murders prostitutes in Whitechapel, one of London's districts in the East End. He gets a student named Arthur to help him solve the mystery, and a useful partnership (and eventual romance) begins. All may seem well, but remember-there are daggers in men's smiles.
1. The Whitechapel Murderer

_A puzzling case is brought before the police._

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Warning for depictions of violence. Part of the first information report here's directly quoted from the actual Jack the Ripper case files. This story's also on AO3, so you can read it there if you prefer that format.

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Boredom is a dangerous emotion. When we have nothing to do, the mind comes up with all sorts of ideas. Sometimes they lead towards the improvement of the world, like da Vinci's doodles of machines. Sometimes they practically plunge us into Hell, like the terrible, hateful thoughts conceived of in idle time. Sometimes, a little bit of both is involved.

Alfred F. Jones would find this out soon enough, and realize how boredom could lead him to the pinnacle of his career at Scotland Yard. But was that glory worth all the pain attached to it?

The young officer sat arranging records at the station. It was autumn here in England, but the chill was coming early. The leaves outside were turning from vibrant green to bright red to dull brown very quickly in the September sun, and created a lovely sight for Alfred to observe while he worked.

He had joined the police force of London believing it would give him the chance to save civilians from all sorts of goons. Alfred looked back on his childhood, when he had tied red blankets around his neck, screaming "I'm the hero!" for everyone to hear. _They only tell you about the fun bits of being part of the police. You make sure bad guys don't hurt anyone, you have awesome adventures, you solve cases. All this stupid paperwork isn't shown in those kids' books._

Alfred looked back to the Mary Ann Britland murders of 1886, which he had played an important role in solving during his student days. When would another interesting case like that come along? Apart from the occasional robbery, gang war, or bar fight here and there, nothing noteworthy had occurred.

He looked over to the opposite side of the room, where his boss Ludwig Beilschmidt was going over some papers. They seemed uncrumpled and neatly typed, and Alfred guessed it was a new report that had come in. Forgetting to act professionally, he sauntered over to Ludwig's desk and chirped, "Hey, Ludwig, whatcha doin'?"

Ludwig sighed at the American's mannerisms, but appeared to be too troubled by something to reprimand him and tell him to be more formal. Instead, he replied, "Another case came in, regarding the murder of a woman in the East End."

Alfred's excitement deflated. "Oh, just that?" The East End was the district of the poor, immigrants, and all sorts of disreputable establishments. Crimes like this were common, with barmaids being stabbed by drunken patrons or prostitutes by dissatisfied johns.

"Be serious, Alfred. We have much to discuss," Ludwig said, worry in his tone. Alfred pulled up a chair. This was going to be a long story.

"At 3:40 am yesterday, Charles Cross, a carter, was going to work when he found a strange bundle by the 1876 Board School on Bucks Road, and decided to have a look at it. When he got closer, he realized it was, in fact, the body of a woman. Another carter was approaching, and Cross decided to ask him for help. After examining her a little closer, the two men decided that she was probably dead."

"Woah, this sounds like a ghost story," the American commented, listening as if to a storyteller at a party

"Sadly, it is all too real," Ludwig paused to clear his throat. "After the two men had left, Constable Honda-yes, you know Kiku-walked onto Bucks Road and saw the body. Curious, he went over to the other side of the street with his lamp and saw that a very atrocious crime had been committed. Her throat was slashed-"

"That's nothing interesting," Alfred interrupted, yawning. "Seems like any other drunken murder to me."

"How many times must I remind you to listen, Jones? Let me finish! Her throat had been slashed so many times, so brutally, that her head had nearly been severed, and blood was oozing from the wound!"

Alfred was taken aback. What kind of sick person went around doing this stuff to women?

"Meanwhile, the two carters had come here and alerted Constable Vargas, who was coming in the same direction."

Alfred laughed to himself, picturing Feliciano screaming like a schoolboy at the body and Kiku bustling around nonplussed. The two constables were a study in contrast, but managed to work effectively under duress.

"Vargas called for Doctor Hedervary, who arrived at 4:00 am and did a quick examination. Here is her first information report, look over it."

Alfred reached out and took the paper from his boss. Elizabeta was one of the few female doctors in London, and as far as Alfred knew, the only one who dabbled in medico-legal. Despite (or perhaps because of) her sex, she had as much guts as, maybe even more than, her male colleagues, when examining blood. Ludwig, a seasoned officer familiar with gore, and Kiku, who was always collected, still flinched a little at the sight of particularly disturbing injuries, but she always went about the business calmly, taking notes and positioning the corpse however necessary without turning her eyes away for a second. Alfred took note of the following extract of her report:

 _The victim's throat received multiple wounds. The slashes were very deep, nearly resulting in decapitation. As observed by PC Vargas, the victim's back was soaked with blood that had oozed out and dribbled down from the neck wound. He also found a mass of coagulated blood about six (6) inches in diameter underneath the body of the deceased. On closer inspection, a deep gash running all along her abdomen was discovered, indicating disembowelment. Further examination of this was prevented by the premature cleaning of the corpse and disposal of the garments._ t:

 _The condition of the body appeared to prove conclusively that the deceased was killed on the exact spot in which she was found./span/em/p_

 _There was not a trace of blood anywhere, except at the spot where her neck was lying, this circumstance being sufficient to justify the assumption that the injuries to the throat were committed when the woman was on the ground, whilst the state of her clothing and the absence of any blood about her legs suggested that the abdominal injuries were inflicted whilst she was still in the same position._

 _It was also observed that the deceased's body and legs were still warm, although her hands and wrists were quite cold. It is possible that she had not been dead for more than half an hour as of 4:00 am of August 31, 1888._

"Have they caught the guy who did this?" Alfred asked indignantly. "Nobody deserves to have this sort of sick stuff done to them! Especially a woman..."

"Doctor Hedervary's observations indicate that the victim may have only been dead for thirty minutes. If she is to be believed and if these notes are indeed accurate, the murderer may still have been on the scene when Cross found the body. However, the residents of Buck's Row, including the nightwatchman Mulshaw, say they saw, heard, and noticed absolutely nothing. There were three slaughter-men who were working through the night, but after a series of interrogations, they have been eliminated as suspects."

"Oh! Let me work on this case!" Alfred piped up enthusiastically. "After all, I was the one who threw you guys on Britland's trail two years ago!" The young American beamed with pride.

Ludwig appeared to be beset with making a decision, no doubt wondering whether or not to give the wet-feathered upstart this opportunity.

Alfred, realizing the matter was closed, returned to his desk.

At the end of the day, Ludwig pulled Alfred aside.

"Under ordinary circumstances, I would not give this to a junior officer," he announced gruffly. "But, as you have been given to understand, these are no ordinary circumstances. You possess a good record, and you were instrumental in a major case in the past, as you are fond of pointing out. I am assigning you the case, Jones."

" _Viel glück_ ," Ludwig wished his junior well in his mother tongue.

" _Danke_ ," Alfred replied gratefully.

With the prospect of dinner, and of an interesting new case to dispel the humdrum that had recently crept into his life, Alfred headed off to the taverns.

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Author's Notes:

-I'm somewhat new to the Hetalia fandom, so constructive criticism on this fic is appreciated.

-I cut out a couple details of the real-life case that I felt were unnecessary. I did my best not to gloss over anything important, though.

-There will be more gore in the later chapters, so please be careful, friends!


	2. The Mermaid Tavern

_Alfred meets someone at a tavern, who may prove useful in the investigation. But getting him to help is already a challenge in itself._

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-If you guys have read Fresh Off the Gondola, you've realized that I like the Mermaid Tavern. Well, that was the place where Shakespeare and his other writer buddies met up to eat and discuss ideas. I think it still exists (but the original building's been torn down a long time ago), managed by the same family.

-Spoiler warning (ish) for Pride and Prejudice.

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Alfred liked the Mermaid Tavern. It was in a convenient spot of London, close to the station, to the other shops, and to the block of flats he called home. From the table in the corner, he could watch the colors of autumn swirl around the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral, and throughout the streets of Cheapside, which was beginning to fall asleep as the sun bid farewell, sinking behind the horizon.

Although he had never been a particular literature geek, Alfred quite liked Shakespeare, and eating somewhere that had been of significance to the playwright made his evenings happier. Plus, the food was good and the prices cheap, a wonderful combination for the young policeman, who ate here every Friday night.

Tonight was one such night, and the promise of a proper meal, combined with a new case to work on, put Alfred in high spirits. He ordered his favorite meat pie and ale, pulling a copy of Pride and Prejudice out of his bag when he was settled in a bar stool by the window.

 _Oh, fuck, Lydia, why'd you run away with Wickham, of all people? Dear God, I don't think I like where this is going..._

"It's a wonderful work, isn't it? I love Jane, she develops her characters wonderfully and makes very overused plotlines interesting."

Alfred swiveled in his seat, trying to find the person who'd interrupted his train of thought. The voice belonged to a young man about his age, with deep green eyes, light blond hair and the thickest eyebrows he'd ever seen, who had probably come straight from work at a laboratory or the hospital, seeing as he still had a coat and gloves on.

 _He's pretty handsome, too,_ Alfred thought, smiling to himself momentarily.

"I agree! People keep badmouthing romance and hating on it blindly. Well, they haven't met Elizabeth Bennet," he responded. "I can't say I really like the English writing style, though. It can get overdescriptive. Back home in the States everything's more fast-paced."

"Oh, you're American!" The other boy paused for a second. "Oh, how foolish, I haven't introduced myself. Arthur Kirkland, pleasure," he held out his hand.

"Alfred Jones! Nice to meet you!"

"So, Alfred, I take it you're part of the police?"

"Yeah, graduated from Oxford two years ago."

"We've got something in common, then," Arthur replied, pleasantly surprised. "I'm a medical student there. I'm surprised we haven't yet met, I've done some work at the lab with Dr. Hedervary."

 _I'm also quite surprised how I got this far in life, considering where I come from,_ Arthur couldn't help adding under his breath.

Alfred caught it. "What do you mean, 'considering where I came from'? You seem like a nice enough guy."

 _Bollocks, this guy heard me. Might as well tell him so he'll get off my back about it,_ Arthur thought.

"You may as well know," he replied gruffly. "Just don't write me off on account of my childhood."

The medical student cleared his throat, as if he were about to tell a story he had tired of recounting.

"I grew up in the East End of London. We were far from what you'd call fortunate, and Mum had to do all sorts of disreputable work to keep us fed. As for my father, I don't know who he is. My mother claimed not to know either. Sometimes I think I don't even have one."

Arthur downed a glass of ale. "I did quite well in school despite that, or perhaps because of it. Seeing what everyone around me went through I was determined not to step in the same dog shit. I got noticed, and went to Oxford on a government scholarship. And that's how I ended up here, answering all your pointless questions."

Alfred didn't seem to care about Arthur's past at all, nor did he seem particularly hurt by the last remark. He looked like a switch had turned on in his brain; like he had discovered something brilliant and advantageous.

"You know your way around the East End...you're a medical student...you know Dr. Hedervary...you work in the crime lab from time to time..."

"Yes, you idiot, weren't you listening?" Arthur's determination to control his temper and suffer too-friendly conversational partners was out like a candle flame on a stormy day.

"May I request your help in a case?" Alfred said, oblivious to Arthur's rising annoyance.

"By Jove...a case?!"

"Yes! So, uh, this girl's been murdered in Whitechapel, and her wounds, the motive, the circumstances, practically everything that went down there is complicated. Since you know the area, and you know medicine, you're the kind of guy I need to help me solve this case!"

"Are you mad? Of course not! I wouldn't help the police! They claim to serve the people, but abuse those who don't give them bribes! They've done nothing but give me trouble since I rolled out of the womb!"

"But not all officers are-" Alfred began, a weak attempt at getting Arthur to see his side.

" _Not all officers,"_ Arthur mocked. "Well, you benefit from the same twisted system, and telling someone who's been victimized over and over again that not all of their oppressors mean to be cruel and unjust...way to wash your hands of the matter, Jones," he spat out the last sentence.

Alfred had never been grilled so harshly in his life. Not even the biting criticism of the fastidious Ludwig had cut as deeply as the rebuttals of this mysterious medical student.

"Please, Arthur, for all our sakes, if you don't help, more innocent people could suffer the way you did...or worse than you did...would you like that to happen?"

"Would you stop badgering me, you accursed whoreson? I have more pressing matters to attend to!" Arthur tossed his handkerchief at Alfred in a dramatic gesture of exasperation, storming out of the Mermaid Tavern after hurriedly dishing out some cash to pay for his food.

Alfred ate the rest of his dinner in silence, disappointed. _Well, even heroes don't always get what they need._

Arthur's handkerchief lay on the floor. It was a bright red, clean but crumpled and patched from recent wear and tear.

Alfred felt he ought to keep a part of the quick-witted boy back with him, and pocketed the handkerchief without thinking.

* * *

I may have started a mini-social critique through Arthur and Alfred's conversation. Sorry about that.

I stole the red handkerchief bit from an opera called Carmen, where it was originally a red flower. Props to you if you can guess what it's supposed to foreshadow.

Constructive criticism is always welcome! Stay safe and have fun wherever you are~!


	3. The Game is On

_The beginning of a long, trying round of cat-and-mouse._

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This fanfic is making me look like a serial killer to people who see my history! Contains implied PruHun, so if you don't like that ship just ignore it. Contains graphic descriptions of injuries.

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When Alfred reached work the next day, he was astonished to find Arthur sitting in the waiting room, reading Tess of the d'Urbervilles and apparently expecting him.

"Good morning, Jones."

"It's all right if you call me Alfred, or even Al. I don't really mind."

Reintroducing themselves felt strange. Arthur had revealed a lot of his family background, shared about his favorite writer, and raged about the system to Alfred the night before, all in the space of less than half an hour. The medical student also looked at him with a questioning eye, as if wondering whether it was worth his while to trust and help the American.

Arthur became better disposed after a while, and Alfred put it down to a lack of sleep. After all, aspiring doctors weren't the most relaxed people on the planet.

"So, where is our dark lady?" Arthur asked, rifling through his bag to see if he'd brought everything.

"The body? In the morgue, of course! It's not very far. Why? You scared of the dead, Arthur?"

The student rolled his eyes and chuckled.

As they walked, Arthur asked, "What's it like being part of Scotland Yard?"

"Well, it really depends. If you've got a case, it's really exciting! You get to be a hero to people who need your help and you get to do really cool stuff like they do in those mystery books. But it can be pretty dangerous, because the bad guys are probably gonna go after your ass when they realize you're after them. Still," Alfred said, smiling, "I wouldn't exchange this job for the world." Clearly, Officer Jones was a man in love with his work, despite the not-so-fun bits.

"That sounds quite nice," Arthur said, looking up at an old beech, "but I'm afraid I prefer quieter pursuits. It's infinitely more pleasant to read about adventures than experience them."

"Oh, really big cases crop up about one time out of ten. When you've got nothing to do, they either make you organize records or put you on night duty."

"Well, I wouldn't enjoy that either," admitted Arthur as he smiled, almost to himself. "I chose well when I picked medicine. It's the right mix of quiet and adventurous, because I work in an ordinary office but get quite a lot on my plate diagnosing people, too much to be bored."

"I wanted to be a doctor as a kid," Alfred laughed. "But I changed my mind after realizing I could end up killing people if I made a mistake."

"Really?" Arthur smiled, then paused. "Sorry, Alfred, looks like your childhood story will have to wait. Here we are."

Inside the morgue, Doctor Hedervary was at work. She was having a look at some of the bodies that had come in earlier that day from the hospital. She confirmed causes of death, recorded important information, and signed death certificates. Elizabeta went about her work with an ease, and even enthusiasm, that Arthur hoped to achieve when the time came for him to work in this morgue.

"Ms. Hedervary!"

"Oh, it's nice to see you, Mr. Kirkland."

"Arthur, madam."

Taking Alfred aside, Arthur whispered, "She's given some lectures at the medical college. Ms. Hedervary seems quite scary when you meet her, but she's one of the nicest teachers there."

He did not mention the rumors among the students that Elizabeta had thought she was a boy until she hit puberty.

Alfred, for his part, was thinking of how the junior officers (quite rightly) suspected the Hungarian doctor of carrying on an affair with his boss Ludwig's elder brother.

"Ah! Officer Jones! I know what you've come here for."

Hastily, Elizabeta made her way to the table in the middle of the room where a body was lying beneath a white sheet. She uncovered it in her usual businesslike manner, motioning the boys to come have a look.

A woman of about forty lay on the table. She looked like she was sleeping peacefully, despite the horror she must have been through in her last moments. The other workers at the morgue had disposed of her clothes, keeping Dr. Hedervary from investigating further. However, if one were to look closely, with the aid, perhaps, of a magnifying glass, several deep slashes would be seen running along her abdomen.

Alfred sat on a bench in the corner, notepad at the ready, like he had all the time in the world. Arthur, for his part, appeared to have been dragged forcibly out of a reverie.

"Mrs. Nichols? I didn't expect to see her again in this way."

"Oh, Arthur, you knew her?" Elizabeta asked sympathetically.

"Mother did," he answered. "She gave us money once or twice."

Elizabeta thought Arthur seemed to be hiding something, but she decided he was just trying to collect himself. It _was_ unsettling to see someone you'd known as a child become the victim of a crime.

She turned to the boy accommodatingly. "You've come here to help Officer Jones, and you do need practice. I'll let you handle the injuries on your own. You did show a particular interest in medico-legal last I saw you at the medical college. Leave the vital statistics and internal exam to me." Elizabeta moved back to the far end of the room, writing a report for a chimney-sweep who had died of consumption.

Arthur extracted a magnifying glass and a measuring rod from the bag he'd brought. He remembered Dr. Hedervary's lectures: _Start with external evidence_ , rang her voice, kind and cheerful, but clear and definitive. _Don't dismiss anything you see as irrelevant_ , she would say as she tapped the desk for emphasis, _even eye and hair color matter._

Arthur hated doing external examination, and would have preferred to do an autopsy on the internal organs, which he found much more fascinating; but alas, they had yet to be taught the intricacies of cutting open a dead body, distinguishing different internal injuries, and putting the corpse back together afterwards. The pressure to look at every little detail, the fear in the back of his mind that he'd missed something important, all of these tedious things were anathema to the impatient student. But it had to be done. Arthur thanked God for the magnifying glass.

The first thing he noticed was the bruises. A large one, running along the right side of her face by the jaw, a deep purple tinged with red (blood that had risen to just below the skin); and a smaller one about the side of a pendant, on the left, colored similarly but quite lighter.

Another prominent feature worth noting was the cuts. A long one from right under the ear to below the jaw, red as a ruby and shaped rather like a smile; a large circular one by the neck that had cut deeply, a polka dot of pain; a deep jagged slice on the left side of her lower torso that had cut through skin and muscle; and several similar injuries inflicted with the same violence as their cousin on the left.

Arthur took these observations down in a little leather notebook, along with a few other measurements. He pulled off his gloves and packed the tools back in his bag, then moved over to Dr. Hedervary.

"Very thorough," she said, proud of her student. "You have a good eye for detail. Now, Arthur, please copy these out onto the chart here"-she pointed at the paper on her desk-"so I can include them in my more detailed report."

After he had filled out the autopsy diagram, Arthur went over to Alfred, who had been daydreaming in the corner. "Alfred, would you like to come to lunch with me? Or do you have other duties at the station?"

"Oh, no, I don't have anything to do," the American stretched. "I'll have to come back to collect Dr. Hedervary's autopsy, though."

"Brilliant!" Arthur beamed. "I'll see you at the Mermaid Tavern at half-past twelve."

As they went their separate ways, each of them felt a sense of accomplishment mingled with relief, but underneath it all was a sense of foreboding. They had gotten some work done, but it was only the beginning: the beginning of an unpredictable and dangerous game.

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This took a loooooooooot of research. It's easy to write the plot, but I've hit a wall with the fluff and character development bits.

Thank you for checking this out, hope you continue reading it!


	4. The Experts Analyze

_In which our heroes get a little closer. To a clue, and to each other._

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Okay, that is legit the cheesiest summary I've written. Please read on! Warnings for the usual things, like violence, gore, and blood. There are also mentions of knives and stabbing.

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They sat at the same spot they'd occupied at last night's fiasco. From here, you could see the whole neighborhood buzzing with life: people taking breaks from work, drinking ale and gossiping; women bringing home food to cook for lunch; and an assortment of people sitting in quiet by the roadside, focusing on cards and chessboards. It was difficult to believe that a woman had been brutalized and murdered not far from here.

Arthur had a steak-and-ale pie. Alfred ordered beef stew.

"What was doing the autopsy like?" Alfred had never seen one before, and he was curious about how doctors went about their work.

"Oh, it's my first time actually doing one." Arthur dug into his pie. "After four years of nothing but dissections, it's nice to have a change."

"Find anything good?" Alfred asked, leaning back in his seat.

Arthur took out his notebook, flipping through the pages of class notes and reminders to get to his external autopsy details. He looked questioningly at Alfred, saying, "Doesn't discussing injuries at lunch...disgust you in the least?"

"Oh," Alfred replied, chewing, "nope! It doesn't! I've eaten lunch while reading autopsy reports a million times! Anyway, who cares? As long as the food's good I can stomach anything!"

Arthur fixed him with a look. _Americans and their appetite._

The medical student brought out a pencil and made a rough sketch of Nichols' corpse.

"All right then, let's start from the face and go down from there. So, the deceased had a bruise running along the lower part of her jaw, on the right side of her face. On the left side of her face, she had another bruise, but this one was round. I'm not entirely sure what caused them, pressure from the killer's fingers, perhaps? Or a punch? A punch is more likely, seeing as she had injuries inside her mouth."

"Wait," Alfred asked, chewing on a tough piece of meat, "why would she have bruises? I thought she was disemboweled, not beaten to death."

"I believe the murderer forced her head up so he-or she, women are capable of murder, too-could get to her neck and inflict the wounds. Two of them, to be precise."

"And they were just as bad as the other injuries, I guess?" Alfred watched Arthur adding details to the drawing as the discussion progressed. Those bruises looked pretty lifelike, even though they were colored the dull gray of pencil lead and not deep purple.

"More so. One of them was four inches long, running from right below the left ear to below the left jaw. An inch under that, there was a round cut, eight inches long, that probably did Mrs. Nichols in. Dr. Hedervary didn't let me poke around internally, but I'm quite sure the damage extended to the bone, instead of stopping at the blood vessels like most murder injuries do." Arthur drew several lines about the area of the neck.

Alfred winced. "That's a shitty way to die."

Arthur didn't seem fazed by any of this, in the same way that Dr. Hedervary went about her work at the morgue without batting an eye. Alfred put it down to their constant exposure to crime and death.

"It is a bad way to die, Alfred," he laughed lightly, "but people have burned to death, which is far worse."

Was this guy even serious?

"Did she have any stab wounds on her torso?" the American cut in.

"Surprisingly, there was nothing on the body, save for the blood that dribbled down from the neck wound." Arthur left the torso of his sketch blank, skipping to the lower abdomen. "In contrast to that, this part was brutally mutilated."

He drew a deep, jagged line on the left side of his sketch, along with four smaller and lighter ones.

"The largest wound was very deep, just like the circular cut on the neck. In the same vein"-Alfred snickered, and Arthur shot him a glance as if to say, _The pun wasn't intended, fool, be serious, because we're discussing a murder case_ -"it went far beneath the skin, cutting through muscle all the way to the intestines. As for the four smaller cuts, they weren't as severe, but I can tell they were probably made by the same weapon, using less force."

"Deep words, Arthur, deep words," Alfred said, giggling at his own joke.

The Englishman allowed himself a laugh, his first genuine one in a long while.

"I see you're back early."

Elizabeta was clattering away on a typewriter, about to finish her autopsy. They could tell she was hard at work; an uneaten pie and a mug of cold tea sat on the table.

"How's it going, Ma'am?" Alfred chirped.

"I'm nearly done! I have a few theories about the murderer, but they're not specific enough."

"That's interesting! Arthur's thought up some stuff, too!"

"Well," Arthur spoke up from the corner, "I _could_ be jumping to conclusions."

 _"A theory must be shared before it can be disproved."_ Elizabeta had said this to Arthur many times before in his first year at university, when she was trying to get the wet-feathered boy to recite in class.

"Here are my notes, Madam," he replied as he settled into the seat by his old teacher. "I don't have much to say, but I believe the murderer was skilled with a knife. The strokes were less crude than most other injuries we've seen, so it probably wasn't committed by a random drunk."

"I was thinking of that myself, Arthur. I compared it with other crimes of this nature just a while ago."

Elizabeta pulled out a sheaf of files. There were various case documents and sketches, all showing murders in the East End in the last year.

"If you noticed, wounds made by an untrained person are jagged, skin-deep, and not very precise. Those made by people who know what they're doing are cleaner, but cut deep and hit vital regions without being too messy."

"The wounds were jagged, so how can we come to the conclusion that it wasn't just a random drunk?" Alfred asked. Wow, medicine was confusing.

"Exactly the question I was about to answer," Elizabeta smiled. "Let's assume the person in question IS trained. They set out to kill this woman with a perfect plan in mind. However, they realize they're in a neighborhood, where people might hear. What happens?"

"They're in a hurry to get away, so they end up stabbing her in a really sloppy way?" Alfred asked.

"But they know where to hit, and still deal the intended damage," Arthur completed the thought.

"Correct! And one other thing," the doctor added. "Look at the cuts. They're rushed, but if you compare it with these, it certainly bears a resemblance."

She pulled out several papers from the pile of documents. Alfred took a look at them, and Arthur examined them too.

"Hm, this murder was committed by Cuthbert Avery, and he was a cook."

"In this case, the killer was one Amanda Sharp, and she ran a slaughterhouse before moving to London."

"Esme Fisher and Gregory Johnston, a doctor and a maker of leather goods."

Elizabeta took a sip of tea. "All of these people are trained in the use of knives. The tools used by those different jobs leave similar marks, and they look quite like those on the corpse. The person we're after could practice one of those trades. Another thing: the murderer might have been left-handed. See how the strokes run from left to right? It's possible."

"LET'S ROUND UP ALL THE LEFTIES IN THIS CITY WHO KNOW HOW TO USE KNIVES!" Alfred screamed, excited.

"Don't you believe that we need more leads?" Arthur groaned.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Alfred," Elizabeta laughed. "We need concrete proof before arresting someone. And keep in mind: the body was cleaned prematurely. Arthur and I could be mistaken about the cuts."

The three of them sat in silence for a while, contemplating everything.

"Here it is, Alfred! The finished autopsy."

Elizabeta handed him eight pages, neatly typed out without a smudge.

Alfred skipped over the medical history and other formalities, taking note of the following passage in the notebook his brother Matthew had given him:

 _Five of the teeth were missing, and there was a slight laceration of the tongue. There was a bruise running along the lower part of the jaw on the right side of the face. That might have been caused by a blow from a fist or pressure from a thumb. There was a circular bruise on the left side of the face which also might have been inflicted by the pressure of the fingers. On the left side of the neck, about 1in. below the jaw, there was an incision about 4in. in length, and ran from a point immediately below the ear. On the same side, but an inch below, and commencing about 1in. in front of it, was a circular incision, which terminated at a point about 3in. below the right jaw. That incision completely severed all the tissues down to the vertebrae. The large vessels of the neck on both sides were severed. The incision was about 8in. in length. The cuts must have been caused by a long-bladed knife, moderately sharp, and used with great violence._  
 _No blood was found on the breast, either of the body or the clothes. There were no injuries about the body until just about the lower part of the abdomen. Two or three inches from the left side was a wound running in a jagged manner. The wound was a very deep one, and the tissues were cut through. There were several incisions running across the abdomen. There were three or four similar cuts running downwards, on the right side, all of which had been caused by a knife which had been used violently and downwards. The injuries were from left to right and might have been done by a left-handed person. All the injuries had been caused by the same instrument._

"Thanks a lot, doctor! Stay safe, you might run into the guy who killed Mrs. Nichols!" Alfred fired a joking parting shot.

"Oh, don't worry about me. They're no match for my frying pan," Dr. Hedervary sneered, pulling her face into a mock-fierce expression.

"Doctor...did you just say 'frying pan'?" Arthur queried, confused.

"Oh, yes," she shrugged, as if frying pans were standard tools in the medical field. "If you're looking for a good place to eat, try that place called Turnpike's. Nowhere near as good as chicken paprikash back home in Hungary, but Officer Vargas told me their pasta's wonderful!"

With that, she waved goodbye and ran in the opposite direction, singing something in Hungarian to herself.

She was a colorful character, that Dr. Hedervary.

* * *

-To make up for the slow-moving and not very interesting chapter, I'm going to write two chapters of plot and a chapter of fluff next!

-Like in Chapter 1, the autopsy here is directly quoted from the actual one Dr. Llewelyn (the guy who worked on this case) made. You can tell what I didn't write.

-My mom actually asked me if I was planning on becoming a serial killer because my history has stuff like "what do stab wounds look like" or "what tools were common 19th century murder weapons" I'm laughing right now.

-I got those names out of a phonebook. I really hope the people whose names I used don't see this (´・◡・｀;)

-Chicken paprikash is a traditional Hungarian food and it tastes great.

-I meant to write "vital organs," but I realized "vital regions" could slot in nicely as a reference, so I'm keeping it! (*≧▽≦)ﾉｼ))

-Please write reviews so I can receive constructive criticism about how to improve! If you don't feel like posting you can PM me instead!

Thanks for your support~!


	5. Leather Apron

_A visit to Arthur's childhood home results in a substantial lead._

* * *

I'm pretty sure this isn't disturbing enough to warrant a warning, but just so y'know, this chapter takes place in a brothel.

* * *

"Why are we here again?"

"Look, you're the sort of person who discusses autopsy results at the lunch table. Surely, you can tolerate stories about alleged blackmail."

The brothel was a wooden structure, three stories high. It would have looked like any other respectable establishment, if not for the university students and workingmen in various states of inebriation flitting in and out, looking to have a good time.

Alfred was embarrassed to be here, even if it was for work, and had cause to be. He and Arthur were dressed in the garb of their trades, eliciting glances from passers-by. No doubt, they were wondering what an officer and a doctor were doing outside such a house of sale.

"Yeah, Arthur, but what if-"

"We've a good reason to be here. If anyone asks, tell them it's a case we're working on. Come, now."

Avoiding curious stares, drunk johns, and the disapproving tut of an old woman across the street, they entered.

While the boys were working in the morgue with Dr. Hedervary, Feliciano and Kiku had gone poking around the East End. They had come back with several reports of a man who had been blackmailing the area's residents. Most of the complaints had come from prostitutes.

Ludwig, who was away in Germany, had sent Alfred a note, written in clear, blocky letters. We are in possession of it and here copy out a section:

 _I have no reason to disbelieve Vargas and Honda's findings, but the people in that area are not on the best terms with us and could be lying out of fear. Please go to the East End as soon as you can to verify. Bring that boy of yours along, he knows his way around._

"Why'd we have to go _here_? There's a bar right across," Alfred asked, his cheeks burning.

"I grew up here," Arthur replied. "They'll be more willing to answer questions if they see me with you."

He did not seem in the least happy to be back home, and Alfred felt a bit of guilt. _Arthur went through a lot of trouble to take me here even if he's ashamed of his old home. The least I can do's follow through without complaining._

Arthur took him to a little door at the end of a hall on the second floor. He knocked, calling " _Mademoiselle Bonnefoy, etes-vous? Je suis un visiteur,"_ in a tone more courteous than the environment warranted.

Alfred didn't know much French, but it didn't take a polyglot to realize that Arthur was probably familiar with the room's occupant. How else would he know her surname and native language?

(He was also quite surprised that Arthur could speak French and was on seemingly good terms with a French person, as the boy was such a Francophobe.)

A woman answered the door, looking through them with half-lidded eyes. " _Viens_ ," she cooed at them, " _Je suis libre pour le reste de la soirée, alors prenez votre temps._ " She was very beautiful, but some of her teeth were rotting and she was emaciated. Her hair and clothes were messy and her makeup was thick. Alfred felt an instant rush of sympathy.

"Francoise, it's Arthur."

After looking him up and down for a few long moments, Francoise recognized him and began to speak heavily accented English, her tone becoming more sisterly and less seductive. "Arthur!" she laughed, "You're a lot taller now. You know, I'd recognize you if you visited more often. And who is this?"

"This is Alfred Jones, Francoise. He's with Scotland Yard and I'm helping him with a case."

Unlike Arthur's usual way of speaking, which was cultured and gentlemanly, he was now talking in a fast, easy, casual way. His accent sounded less like a medical student at Oxford University and more like a meat vendor at the market. Alfred realized this was probably how he really talked, doing his best to cover it up when he was with better company.

Francoise, meanwhile, was interrogating Arthur. "What case? Was someone here murdered? Or am I in trouble for something?" she was asking, pensive and looking harassed.

"Haven't you heard of what happened to old Mrs. Nichols?"

"Why would the police go to me?" Francoise turned to Alfred. "Do you really think I killed her? Ridiculous, I can only cut vegetables-"

"Oh, no, we're not going to hurt you, Francoise," Alfred said, trying to reassure her. "We're trying to catch the guy who did it, and we've got a few clues, but we want to make sure."

The lady relaxed, settling into a tattered armchair and pulling her shawl tighter around her as a chill blew in through the window. " _Dieu merci_!"

"Can you answer a few questions?" Arthur asked her, pacing around the room like a tiger in a cage. "They're about a man who's been extorting money from prostitutes 'round here."

Realization dawned on Francoise's face. "Do you mean Leather Apron?"

"Yeah," Alfred said. "Have you ever had a run-in with him?"

"Not really," Francoise tried to remember. "But I've heard things, and he seems a right awful character!"

"When did you first hear about him?" Arthur borrowed the notebook from Alfred. "Please tell us everything you remember."

"It was a year ago," she began. "I was downstairs having a chat with Miranda about the police.'You know, Francoise,' she said, 'The Scotland Yard used to be quite good at their job. But recently it's not that great, what with this grimy Jew trying to mooch off of me and all.' Of course, I was pretty suspicious when she said that, so I asked what had happened. She said a certain man had come up to her room and asked her for money. Wouldn't stop, wouldn't leave. Threatened to rip her open when she said she'd set the cops on 'im."

"Extortion guy threatened her like that? I see why he's been considered a suspect," Alfred commented.

Francoise nodded gravely. "Fearing for her life, she gave him the money anyway. After talking it over, we just laughed it off, because crazy people are everywhere in this city. We thought he was just a harmless madman or a desperate beggar."

"How did you find out he was probably dangerous?" Alfred asked. This was turning out to be a quite interesting story.

"A few weeks passed, and the incident with Leather Apron was forgotten. This all happened about the same time last year, in September. When October came, however, another story like the one with Miranda came along, but it was a woman in another brothel. Soon, many more stories like that cropped up."

"Why didn't you tell us, Francoise?" Alfred felt bad for them. To think that nobody was doing anything about this...

"We don't exactly trust the police, Officer." Francoise sighed. "Beilschmidt's doing a bit better, but the previous guy was just horrible and he ruined Scotland Yard's name for us."

"I'm sorry," Alfred apologized lamely. "Anyways, what did this guy look like?"

"I never met him in person, so I'm not very sure," Francoise began to think. "But according to all the stories, he had light blond hair that reached to his shoulders. Green eyes. Normal height and weight, strange way of speaking, acted pretty girly."

Alfred reflected that this guy would be interesting to meet on the streets, but not the type to be suspected of shady dealings. Swallowing his laughter, he instead asked, "What exactly do you mean by 'strange way of speaking'?"

"An accent, perhaps?" the lady shrugged. "Nobody ever said anything about it, other than 'strange.''

"Pardon me, Francoise," Arthur asked, speaking up suddenly, "but why is he called 'Leather Apron'?"

"That's what they said he was wearing," she explained. "The man may be a maker of leather goods."

Alfred noted that remark down, then put his notebook back in the little bag he'd brought. "Thank you for your time, Ms. Bonnefoy. If anything suspicious happens again, please say so. You can trust me."

"Welcome, _Monsieur_ Jones. And Arthur"-she turned to the Englishman-"please come back. It's good to catch up with an old friend." She gave him a friendly kiss on the cheek, smiled politely at Alfred, and walked downstairs with them.

" _Au revoir_!" she called from the doorway, waving.

Alfred waved back happily. Arthur returned her farewell, but was visibly downcast as they left the East End and walked towards London's city center.

"Hey," Alfred asked, "why are you sad all of a sudden?"

"Nothing, just a bit down," the medical student replied. "I remembered some things that weren't very nice after going back home, that's it."

"How does dinner sound?" Alfred offered, wanting to make it up to the boy. "I'll pay for it."

"Where do you want to eat?" Arthur smiled tiredly.

"Ms. Hedervary mentioned that place called Turnpike's. I saw it on the way here, it's near the Mermaid Tavern."

"All right, then."

"Great! This'll be awesome, Artie!" Alfred said, tousling Arthur's hair.

Normally, Arthur would bite back a retort at anybody who did either of those things. But he realized he didn't mind so much when Alfred did it.

Puzzled at these feelings he hadn't had in a long while, Arthur looked down at the cobblestones, calling himself a fool.

* * *

Translations:

- _Mademoiselle Bonnefoy, etes-vous? Je suis un visiteur._ = Ms. Bonnefoy, are you in? I'm a visitor.

- _Viens_ = singular, informal version of "Come here."

- _Je suis libre pour le reste de la soirée, alors prenez votre temps. =_ I'm free the rest of the night, so take your time.

-Other French stuff are obvious-ish given context, so I'm not putting the translations here.

 **Note: I am not fluent in French and I'm only learning. If the stuff I wrote is off, feel free to let me know.**

* * *

Author's Notes:

This chapter was so embarrassing to write, and I would like to formally apologize to fem!France for making her the prostitute. That was, however, done with the historical context in mind, as most sex workers in London at the time were immigrants from the French port city of Marseilles.

I dare you to guess who Leather Apron is. Tell me in your reviews or PMs.

I'm relatively new to making fanfic, so I'd like to know how well I pulled this off! Please leave a review, or PM me if you'd like to let me know your concerns/comments/raves/rants/other stuff privately.

Bye for now!


	6. Black Dog

_Fluff happens, brought about by bottled-up feelings, sad memories, and an excess of Black Dog whiskey._

* * *

I thought I'd write you guys some fluff/angst/character development so you could relax from the five chapters of plot and detail. If you started reading this for the USUK, then it's your lucky day! No trigger warnings, just a lot of reminiscing over families. For the ships and other stuff, there's past FrUK.

* * *

Turnpike's was like the Mermaid Tavern's Italian cousin, named for the apartment building which had originally stood on the lot it now occupied. It served good food for prices that even university students on the tightest budgets could afford (Arthur recognized some classmates who were fellow scholars). It had none of the stuffiness of a fine-dining restaurant, but it buzzed with life and was, in general, a nice place to spend your evening.

The chef, who also owned it, was a man named Lovino Vargas who thought British food was tasteless and practically worshipped the food of his motherland. He was also a devout Catholic, and had put a little statue of the Virgin Mary in his kitchen. Despite being brother to Feliciano, he had none of the latter's kindness and appeared to be much more abrasive, swearing often and getting angered easier. ("He's just as bad as his brother, but he hides it better," Dr. Hedervary had once remarked to Kiku.)

"How was life over there?" Alfred asked, words muffled by chewing. This was some of the best pasta he'd had in a while.

"In the brothel? Oh, not very good," Arthur answered. The food was a good distraction from his sadness, and he was in better spirits. "We didn't eat regularly. If Mum could bring us bread, it was a good day. If we had meat, it was a great day. In the winter, I had to share a tattered comforter with four older siblings. It wasn't the cleanest place either, I was ill most of the time."

"That's not what I meant," Alfred cut in. "I was asking about the people you were with growing up! Was your family ok? Did you have friends?"

Arthur's green eyes had been dull for most of the evening, but now, a little spark came to them, and Alfred saw a glimpse of the child he used to be.

"At ten years old I wouldn't be able to imagine myself saying this, but my family was lovely, now that I look back on it. I had four siblings. The oldest one was Alistair. I fought with him the most. We'd beat each other up until the bruises came, and I was convinced he hated me, until he hid me from one of my mother's particularly abusive johns."

"Where's he now?"

"He moved to Leeds when I was thirteen. I never saw him again, but he did write often. I later learned that he'd died, I don't know how."

Alfred looked out the window, towards the city lights.

"Next to him were the twins Colin and Irene. I never got to know Colin, because he died when I was seven. Irene was the exact opposite. She was sturdy, and was the least sickly of all of us. If you cleaned her up and dressed her like the young ladies of the West End, you wouldn't know she was a prostitute's daughter. She married very young, and, unbelievably, died in childbirth, along with her son."

Alfred began to feel bad about himself. Never again would he make tasteless jokes about poor people and their families, after realizing the sort of lives they lived.

"Then came Dylan, two years younger than the twins. I was closest to him. We'd play games by the Thames, pick apples from a kind neighbor's yard, and get up to the usual childhood shenanigans. He was practically my dad since I didn't have one. His death was the most puzzling, and also the most tragic," Arthur said, tears welling in his eyes like drizzle. The emptiness of his teenage years was returning. "Before I went to boarding school on that government scholarship, he left to look for a job in another town. We wrote to each other often, but the letters stopped arriving one day. I kept writing to the same address every day for a year. I never even got news of what had happened to him.

"When I was eleven, my youngest brother Peter was born. I only met him on the holidays and I'm sure he only sees me as a source of presents. After all, he was purely an object of love and not of responsibility, what with me not having a hand in raising him. I see him even less now that he's been adopted by a childless old maid."

"What about your mom?"

"She died two years ago. Scarlet fever, just like Alistair."

Alfred reached over to take Arthur's hand in his. It was not pushed away.

"What about Francoise? How do you know her?"

"We lived in the room next to hers. She and her brother Francis were the only children there besides my siblings, so, naturally, we became quite close. I was always friendly with Francoise, but for a long time, I found Francis annoying and not a day passed without the two of us screaming at each other. As the years went by, however, I made peace with him and grew to care for him as much as I did his sister, although we still argued most of the time. I even had a thing with him for a while."

The last sentence surprised Alfred a little bit. He'd never imagined that Arthur would have it in him to be that passionate about another person. Yet here he was, looking up at the stars outside like some besotted schoolboy.

"Were you happy with him?"

Arthur laughed. "That's quite difficult to say-fourteen-year-old boys snogging in dark corners can hardly be called a relationship in the proper sense."

After a while he added, wistfully, "My affection for him never waned, however." Stolen glances across a room, deep sighs before going to bed, holding hands under the dinner table: all these things, and many more, were reflected in his eyes, showing Alfred the child he once was, sad and scared, yes, but ever so hopeful that maybe, just maybe, everything would be better one day.

"And he's...gone, too?"

"Yes. Just like everyone else." Arthur replied, swallowing past the lump in his throat.

"Was there anybody who helped you through all this?" Alfred asked. Playing open-air confessional was uncharacteristic of him, but Arthur needed cheering up and talking about it was clearly helping him. After all, wasn't that a hero's job? Helping people, even if it was just staying by them and validating their feelings instead of fighting bad guys?

"Dr. Hedervary was the only grown-up besides Mum who ever made any sort of effort to make sure I was all right. She gave me presents on Christmas, knowing I was poor. Once she invited me to dinner at her place after I didn't get to eat. I even got extra help on subjects I found difficult in class." Arthur said, quietly. "Elizabeta was my older sister when all my siblings had made good their appointments with the Reaper."

"Isn't it unfair?" he asked. "Everyone who's fat and rich is flourishing with wealth and family, but I have nothing! Almost everyone's left me!"

"Arthur? Do you want to get going now?" Alfred said, standing up. "We're done eating anyway."

"Yes, yes, all right, all right," Arthur replied, his voice coming from a no-man's land between love and pain.

"I used to go here with Dylan."

The Thames was dark in post-sunset London. In the day, it would have been glittering with the English sun playing on its surface, a great gray snake running through the city. It had a slight stink from the garbage that had been thrown in, a remnant of the days before Bazalgette constructed the sewers. The breeze blowing over it cooled the stone that separated the banks from the river.

"Wow, you're lucky! I never really got to play by a river, because the Hudson's pretty far out and isn't that safe!"

"I wouldn't really call myself lucky, Alfred. It was in the middle of the city, but it was too dirty to be safe. Miracle I didn't get cholera!"

"What was it like when you were a kid?"

Arthur took a swig from the bottle of whiskey. This was the one habit he'd never be able to break. Besides, the whiskey was Black Dog, a good brand that he hadn't been able to afford lately. "The year I was born, they started planning the sewers, but they finished the project when I was ten. In the meantime, it smelled terrible, even worse than now. Dylan and I tried to swim there once, along with my sister. She was the only one who didn't fall ill. Us boys, however..." He trailed off, laughing at his childhood felonies.

"We learned our lesson," he continued. "So for the next few years, we confined ourselves to strolling here on Fridays, when we bought food from the market. My first time going on a boat ride here was with Dr. Hedervary on Christmas, three years ago."

Alfred became quiet all of a sudden and Arthur asked what had upset him all of a sudden, thinking it was something he'd said.

"Oh, no," Alfred reassured him. "I just saw the white stuffed bear in that shop window over there, and it made me think of my brother Matthew. He had a toy like that when we were kids, and he talked to it a lot even when Mom and Dad said it was weird."

"Were you close to him?"

"There were a couple parts that weren't all that great, because people noticed me more than him most of the time. There was this one time that he even got mistaken for me! Well, I was really clueless about that most of the time, I'm surprised he didn't hate me for it. But we got along pretty ok, and we spent a lot of time together! I remember that one time he tried to teach me to make pancakes. I sucked! I miss him a lot now that I've moved here, but we still write to each other."

"That sounds nice," was all Arthur could say. He was feeling envious now, knowing that Alfred's brother was alive, albeit absent, while his siblings were all dead or distant. The American boy was kind, but he really could use some lessons in how to read the atmosphere.

They spent a few minutes in awkward silence, Alfred humming to himself and watching people walk by, Arthur mulling over the work to be done at the hospital while getting drunk on Black Dog.

They stayed like that for a long, long time.

Alfred had no idea what to do.

One, this was his first time bringing a drunk friend home. Two, he did not expect that drunk friend to be Arthur freaking Kirkland.

The medical student was lying on the sofa, snoring away in a deep sleep. He looked comfortable enough, but he'd probably have an aching back and a stiff neck in the morning. Alfred searched his mind for solutions.

He ended up carrying Arthur to his bed in the adjoining room, positioning him as best he could so the boy wouldn't choke on vomit if he had to hurl. It wasn't the best way to fall asleep, but it had to be done.

Alfred was about to leave when he felt a hand on his arm.

"Stay with me," Arthur slurred quietly.

It was probably just a dream and no great declaration of love or anything, but Alfred stayed anyway, dozing off in the chair by the bedside table.

"Ngh...ahh...where in blazes am I?"

Arthur rolled over, recognizing that the room was not his own, and promptly got a face-full of London sun.

"You're finally awake, Artie, awesome!"

"What am I doing in your flat?!"

"Oh, you were super buzzed last night, and I brought you here since I don't know where you live!"

Arthur grumbled his thanks. The American was annoying to have around in the morning, but he _was_ very considerate.

"Is that my handkerchief?" Arthur asked, recognizing a familiar piece of holey cloth on the bedside table.

"Uh, yeah," Alfred stuttered an explanation. "You dropped it a couple days ago and I forgot to give it back." That wasn't really very far from what had happened, he reflected.

"I should like it back, thank you. Now allow me to clean up. I'll join you for breakfast at Pub and Go shortly."

* * *

Author's Notes:

I used fanon names for Arthur's siblings because they aren't official (though I'd like to see that happen). If I'm correct, Alistair = Scotland, Colin = Northern Ireland, and Dylan = Wales. Irene's my old Republic of Ireland OC. (Ireland's also called Eire by locals, so I sorta got her name from there.)

The story of Dylan's death is based on a story my grandfather told me once. His school-friend's sister went to get a job in Manila (that's my country's capital), then never returned, despite them exchanging regular correspondence.

I've been asked this by friends, so, yes, Black Dog's a real whiskey brand (don't know if it's British or if it even existed in the 19th century, just used it because I could think of nothing else).

Joseph Bazalgette was a guy who made these really huge sewers to keep the Thames clean. Before that, it just stank. At some point it smelled so bad that the Houses of Parliament had to be abandoned for a while.

A wikihow page called "How to Take Care of a Drunk Person" is currently open on my laptop, and Mom asked if I'd been to any wild parties lately. Weird.

The "Pub and Go" is a nod to England's character song.

I hope this chapter didn't come off as rushed! I'm also not too sure if I wrote this part well, as I've never been in a situation like this and can't relate to it very much. Tell me how I can improve in your reviews.

There may be some time between this chapter and the next update, because I have to do more research and organize the story's timeline. Rest assured I definitely won't abandon it, though!

Please review if you've got any comments/rants/whatever that you'd like me to know. Or PM me if you'd rather I learn of them privately.

Thank you for reading!


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